Saxon: The Emperor's Elephant

by Severin, Tim

  Jaffar’s eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief. ‘Sigwulf, do not look so aghast. No one would be so crass as to deliberately insult the caliph in this manner and I shall tell him so.’

  ‘Your Excellency, if King Carolus had known, I am sure he would have despatched me to find animals of the deepest black and bring them to Baghdad.’

  The nadim flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Sigwulf, your tale rings true, though I must confess that when I heard that Carolus was sending white animals I thought it was a less-than-subtle hint that he favoured an alliance with nearby Andalus and not with the Commander of the Faithful in far Baghdad.’

  He rose to his feet. ‘So now you will understand why the public presentation of white animals to the caliph is impolitic. I’m sorry.’

  Clearly this announcement was the true purpose of our meeting. I felt utterly numb, stunned by the unexpected turn of events.

  Jaffar saw my dismay and was swift to offer a consolation. ‘Sigwulf, His Magnificence will wish to view the white animals, but discreetly. Also I’m going to recommend that he grants you a private audience so that he, too, can hear your remarkable tale.’

  It was obvious that the evening was at an end. I stood up groggily, sensing that Osric beside me was equally confounded. Then I remembered something I had forgotten in my sudden confusion.

  ‘Your Excellency, the elephant your master sent as a gift to Carolus was white. That added to our misunderstanding.’

  Jaffar brushed my excuse aside. ‘That is not a detail I am aware of.’

  My knees were shaking and I felt my shirt sticking to my back. I was sweating; not from heat, for the evening had turned cool, but with a cold sweat from the realization that my mission was a total failure.

  Jaffar was still speaking. ‘The palace staff will send word when the date of your audience with the caliph has been settled. Meanwhile, you can oblige me by recounting the details of your remarkable trip to the scribes in the royal library. It will make a valuable addition to their collection of travel accounts.’

  I gathered myself together sufficiently to thank the nadim for his hospitality and then a servant guided Osric and me back down the path to where our original escort was waiting at the wharf.

  When we got back to the privacy of our rooms, we found that Abram had been waiting up, eager to hear our news.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’ he asked.

  ‘A disaster,’ I replied sourly. ‘We should have brought black animals to Baghdad, not white ones. Black is the caliph’s royal colour. White is associated with his rival in Hispania.’

  Abram looked utterly taken aback. ‘But everyone wears white in the Round City, that’s a requirement.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to sound aggrieved. ‘But all who appear before the caliph on a formal occasion must be dressed in black. Why didn’t you warn us?’

  The dragoman spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘As a Radhanite I’ve never been summoned to appear before the caliph in person. The inner workings of the court are shrouded in secrecy.’

  ‘Both Jaffar and a young lad with him were dressed in black from head to toe.’

  Abram’s eyes lit up with curiosity. ‘What young lad?’

  I described Abdallah and when I had finished, Abram sucked in his breath. ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked.

  ‘I have no idea, except that he was listening to every word.’

  ‘Abdallah’s father is Haroun himself,’ the dragoman said, clearly impressed. ‘Not only Jaffar will report to the caliph what he thinks of you, so too will his favourite son.’

  ‘Then I hope Abdallah liked what he saw and heard,’ I answered peevishly.

  The dragoman gave me an anxious look. ‘Abdallah’s mother is a Persian concubine. He has a half-brother, Mohammed, of the same age and born to one of Haroun’s legitimate wives. Mohammed is the crown prince. There is much jealousy between the two youths.’

  I shrugged. ‘How would that affect us?’

  ‘If Abdallah makes a favourable report to his father, then Mohammed will try to make your life in Baghdad as difficult as possible.’

  ‘But Abdallah and Mohammed are both youngsters.’

  ‘Sigwulf, you have no idea of the in-fighting that goes on beneath the glittering surface of the caliph’s court. Each young man has his own supporters and they compete for power and influence, hoping their own candidate will one day ascend the throne.’

  ‘You’re sounding like the Nomenculator in Rome when he warned me about the hidden conflict for the selection of the next pope.’

  ‘This is far more vicious than Rome,’ said Abram grimly. ‘The previous caliph, Mahdi, died before his time. Some say he was poisoned, others that he was smothered with cushions. He was Haroun’s brother.’

  ‘And Haroun arranged his death?’

  The dragoman dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘No, their mother did. She feared she was losing influence over her eldest son and preferred to see Haroun on the throne.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND that mistake between black and white at the caliph’s court,’ Osric remarked to me the next morning. We had emerged from the menagerie building where we had gone to check on Walo. Despite not speaking Arabic, he had struck up a working friendship with the keepers and was comfortably installed in their dormitory. Madi and Modi were being given their proper food and the hollow walls of their pen were regularly replenished with ice. Walo was confident that they would soon be back to full health.

  ‘I’ve been thinking back to my meeting with Alcuin and then the interview with Carolus,’ I told my friend. ‘Both believed that white was the royal colour in Baghdad.’

  It was mid-morning and the glare of the sun was blinding. We were keeping to the shady side of the narrow street as we walked behind our escort, the same man who had accompanied us to the meeting with Jaffar. He was leading us to the palace library to meet the scribes who would record the details of our journey from Aachen.

  ‘Did Alcuin or Carolus mention where they had got their information from?’ asked Osric.

  ‘No, and there was no reason for me to ask.’

  ‘Yet it’s unlike Alcuin to be so poorly informed.’

  ‘I don’t remember his exact words, but I think he only said that anyone who enters the inner city must be dressed in white. And that’s correct.’

  Osric stopped for a moment to dislodge a pebble that had got trapped in his sandal. ‘What about Abram? He should have known.’

  ‘I didn’t meet Abram until we got back from Kaupang. By then everything was settled, and we had the white animals. Besides, our dragoman tells me that he had never been admitted into the presence of the caliph. Only seen him from a distance.’

  We were heading in the direction of the huge green dome I had noticed from the barge during our arrival in Baghdad. The dome loomed over the surrounding buildings and was evidently part of the main palace complex at the heart of the Round City. As we came closer, another defensive wall topped with guard towers became visible. The caliph’s palace was a fortress within a fortress.

  Before we reached the foot of the wall, our guide turned aside through an archway where two elderly porters sat half-asleep on a stone bench. We followed him into a large open courtyard. In the centre a fountain played, a feature that I was beginning to recognize as commonplace throughout the Round City. The courtyard itself had been designed as a perfect square, and contrasting lines of the grey and mottled-white paving slabs had been laid out in geometric patterns of triangles, circles and squares. Solid-looking buildings two storeys high surrounded all four sides of the court, each fronted by a portico with evenly spaced marble columns whose muted colours matched the courtyard paving. The overall effect was an atmosphere of austere calm, orderly and contemplative. It reminded me of a monastic cloister.

  In the shade of the porticos groups of men were seated on the marble flooring. They were talking quietly among themselves or bent forward over low desks and
busy writing. Many were greybeards, others barely out of their teens. I noticed that the usual pattern was for the scribes to work in pairs, an older man reading aloud from a book while a younger man sat at the desk and took down his dictation.

  Our guide led us to the far side of the courtyard where a tall, painfully thin man stood waiting, his shoulders hunched and his hands tucked into his sleeves. Our escort introduced him as the caliph’s librarian, Fadl ibn Naubakt.

  ‘Nadim Jaffar sent word that you have recently arrived from Frankia. He instructs that we make a record of the details of your route,’ the librarian said in a thin, scratchy voice. He blinked rapidly as he spoke and I wondered if it was due to the sun’s glare or if he had spent so long over his books that his eyesight was damaged.

  ‘My companion and I will be happy to provide what details we can remember,’ I replied. The librarian sounded mildly aggrieved that his normal routine had been disrupted.

  ‘Very good. I hope we will not take up too much of your time.’ Fadl ushered us into the shadow of the nearest portico. ‘I compliment you on your command of Arabic,’ he said to me. ‘I had assigned a Frankish speaker and one of our best notaries. But I can see that the former will not be needed. That will make the task go more quickly.’

  We passed close enough to a pair of scribes for me to hear the older man reading aloud in a language I did not recognize. It had odd, bubbling sounds like water emptying into a drain.

  ‘How many languages can your interpreters understand?’ I asked the librarian.

  ‘They’re translators, not interpreters,’ Fadl corrected me with a touch of pedantry. ‘A good deal of our work here is the transcription of texts written in foreign languages and their scripts. We turn them into Arabic or Syriac. If the subject matter is judged to be very important, we make multiple copies for our library holdings.’

  ‘What language is most in demand?’

  ‘Greek,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Last year we sent a deputation to Byzantium to buy classical medical texts. His Magnificence was most generous with the necessary funds, as was Nadim Jaffar, though his taste inclines more to philosophy.’

  It was an unexpected insight into the interests of the head of the barid. ‘Your deputation was well received in Byzantium?’ I enquired.

  The librarian blinked at me in mild reproof. ‘There is no reason why not. Numerous Greeks live and work here in Baghdad and throughout the caliphate.’

  I decided to let the matter drop. Alcuin had given me to understand that Baghdad and Byzantium were enemies, that their troops launched raids across the common border, and from time to time there was outright war. Perhaps this was another area where Alcuin was misinformed.

  The librarian was speaking again. ‘We produce a large number of original texts ourselves, in particular in the fields of astronomy and astrology. We consider those subjects to be the pinnacle of learning.’ He nodded towards an old fellow who was sitting by himself in a shady corner of the portico. He had dozed off, his head slumped forward on his chest under the weight of an enormous turban that threatened to undo itself at any moment. ‘Yakub is one of the leading authorities on planetary movements. He has been correlating observations at our own Baghdad observatory with the predictions in Indian texts.’

  It crossed my mind that Yakub had been staying up late at night observing the planets, for he did not stir as we skirted around him and went through a door into a large, high-ceilinged room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and deep niches were piled up with scrolls. A row of small unshuttered windows allowed in light and air, but the place had a still, dead feel to it.

  The only occupant of the room was a man who looked more like a heavyweight wrestler than a scholar. He heaved himself up from where he had been sitting in front of a low desk. Everything about him was oversize, from his barrel chest to his massive, entirely bald head. He did not wear a turban and there were beads of sweat on his shiny scalp.

  ‘Musa will take down your story,’ said the librarian. ‘If you need to take a break during your narration, please do not hesitate to say so.’ He stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Musa waved us to cushions placed near his desk and when we had sat down, he took his place behind the desk, pen in hand. ‘Perhaps you could begin with a description of King Carolus’s palace,’ he suggested.

  It took the rest of the morning to repeat the tale I had recounted to Nadim Jaffar the previous evening. Osric helped me out. We took it in turns to describe all that had happened, each filling in details that the other had forgotten or overlooked. This time I also told of the attack on me in Kaupang, the sinking of Protis’s ship and the young Greek’s death in the Colosseum. Osric and I had agreed that a complete record of our journey should be written down and held somewhere safe, in case a further, possibly fatal, accident occurred, and the barid might wish to investigate.

  Occasionally, Musa would interrupt, usually to ask us to repeat a place name or check that he had each episode of the journey in the correct sequence. When, finally, he had finished writing and had laid down his pen, he leaned back and stretched his meaty arms. ‘You seem to have survived an unusual number of narrow escapes. Didn’t Carolus consult with astrologers before sending you on such a hazardous venture?’ he commented.

  ‘As far as I am aware, there are no astrologers at King Carolus’s court,’ I replied.

  ‘Really!’ Musa’s eyebrows arched in surprise on the great egg-shaped face. ‘History tells us that every great ruler tries to look into the future. The Greeks consulted their seers, the Romans opened the entrails of chickens and goats.’

  I paused before replying, not wanting to make Carolus seem too credulous. ‘Carolus believes in his dreams.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Musa. His tone managed to be understanding and disapproving at the same time. ‘And how does he know what the dreams mean?’

  ‘He consults with family and his council, and . . .’ here I hesitated – ‘there was a time when he had access to a Book of Dreams.’

  ‘I expect you mean the Oneirokritikon,’ said Musa casually.

  Osric and I exchanged glances. It was startling to come across Artimedorus’s work in Baghdad, although our copy had been an Arabic translation from the original Greek.

  ‘There’s a rumour that you’ve brought a book from Carolus as a present to the Commander of the Faithful,’ said Musa. ‘I hope it is not the Oneirokritikon, because I’m fairly sure we already have a copy.’ He levered his great bulk to his feet and walked to the book shelves, and within moments had pulled down a volume. ‘Yes, here it is.’ He looked up at us.

  ‘No, no,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘We are carrying a book of beasts, a bestiary.’

  ‘Our librarian will be pleased.’ Musa’s sardonic tone indicated that he was not on good terms with the gaunt librarian. ‘He already has a team working on a new volume of natural history, a complete list of the animals and plants mentioned in the various texts we own. A couple of artists are drawing new illustrations. Nadim Jaffar ordered the book as a present for the caliph on his birthday next year. Doubtless your bestiary, as you call it, will be placed in this library once the caliph has received it formally from you. It will be an additional resource for us and much appreciated.’ He half turned, about to replace the Oneirokritikon on the shelves.

  ‘I wonder if it would be possible to check something that Artimedorus wrote?’ I asked.

  Musa swung round to face us. ‘Of course. You read Greek?’

  I shook my head, and thought it wiser not to say that Osric and I had once had our own copy, and still kept a few pages. ‘I had a couple of dreams on the journey here. They might be significant. Perhaps the Oneirokritikon can offer an explanation.’

  ‘What were they?’ asked Musa.

  ‘I dreamed of a man covered with bees and, in another dream, someone was climbing inside the body of a dead elephant.’

  It took Musa some time to find the first reference, then he read out: ‘“To see a m
an covered in bees, who is not a farmer, is to foretell his death.” ’

  I was aware of the accusing glance that Osric flicked in my direction.

  Musa was leafing further through the book. Then he read, ‘ “If one dreams of a person breaking the skin and entering the body of a dead elephant it means that person will one day derive great riches.” ’

  He closed the book. ‘The problem with the Oneirokritikon is that far too many of the explanations deal with making or losing money. Very Greek . . .’ He gave a throaty chuckle.

  He replaced the Oneirokritikon on the shelf. ‘And naturally the author covers himself against mistakes.’ He thought for a moment and then quoted, ‘“A dream that comes through a gate of horn is false; a dream that comes through a gate of ivory is true.” ’

  His fleshy shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. ‘What on earth can that really mean?’

  He reached down another volume from further along the same shelf. ‘I don’t suppose the librarian would approve, but we have an hour or so before he comes to collect you – why don’t I illustrate how astrology is more reliable than dreams when indicating the future?’

  He brought the large, heavy book across and opened it on the desk.

  From where I sat I could see that the page was covered with columns of numbers, various symbols and drawings with lines and circles that vaguely recalled the geometric patterns in the courtyard.

  ‘I’m no expert like old Yakub outside. I just dabble in these things. But if you tell me some of the key dates in your journey I may be able to put together a simple prediction of how it will end. For a start, I need to know the date when you started on your journey. Also the dates and places of your births.’

  Osric and I provided the information as best we could, and Musa carefully wrote it down. He then spent a long time turning back and forth the pages of the great book and making calculations on a sheet of parchment. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, he sat back. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ve calculated – very roughly, you understand – the star signs, the houses of the planets, mansions of the moon, both on your birth dates and when you began your journey, how the constellations varied along your path, and the timing of your arrival here.’